Zipporah Vast died trying. (filles) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-01-20 00:49:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 56th games, - capitol, tribute: 56th zipporah vast, victor: 52nd diana lyme |
WHO: Diana Lyme [D2 Victor] and Zipporah Vast [D2 Tribute]
WHAT: D2 ladies sizing each other up.
WHEN: Day 1.
WHERE: Train ride to the Capitol.
It bore repeating: something alarming about the Games was taken out of the mix for District Two, given that the fifteen minutes to say goodbye was nothing compared to the two months post-competition that they were offered. Zipporah Vast was almost tranquil, a dark-eyed danger settled comfortably into one of the plusher options for seating on the train: though the ride was short, she had no intention of wasting a second of given luxury, reclined there looking for all the world like a queen in her element. This was a taste of the world she’d soon earn. When Lyme entered her space, she flicked her eyes upward to meet that of her new mentor, her reaction perfectly calm outwardly though mentally preparing. It was a standoff, brief as it was, and Zipporah was not the one to break it: attentive, careful, she took the approach as a test, which it may well have been. Hands folded in her lap, there was nothing of dismissal in her gaze, just rapt attention and patience, reading whatever she could out of the previous Victor. Diana Lyme usually judged by first impressions. It was hasty, of course, but it had usually served her well. Sometimes she’d find something intriguing about a person a while after their first meeting, but one thing that she felt sure of was that human nature was predictable. And her first impression of this girl wasn’t one that she particularly liked. Shiny hair and simpering was something that she associated with District One, the curl of Lyme’s lip as she looked at the girl back on the Reaping stage was enough of a tell to show her distaste. Her approach had to be different this year, now that she was a mentor. She had to be more composed, thoughtful, helpful. The latter was highly unlikely. Diana exhaled slowly, her line of sight wandering to the window briefly as she entered the room. At least it was a short journey, although the Capitol would make her that little more on edge. She didn’t ever know what she was on guard for, what she was prepared for - just making sure that nothing could take her by surprise. She met the girl’s eyes for a moment as Zipporah looked up, and Diana pressed her hands together while searching for something to say. She cleared her throat. “You’re a Volunteer, and you know that comes with certain expectations,” she told the girl, clear and concise with her words. “I’m not going to hug you or tell you that everything will be alright. That’s for other people and not us.” She caught the girl’s eye once again. “Understand?” “I wouldn’t want it,” came her answer, equally as dismissive of the notion - where the Victor seemed uncomfortable that she had to make it known that they weren’t going to engage in saccharine sympathies or bosom friendship, Zipporah considered herself prepared for it. Work with her mentors, absolutely - listen to every word they said and memorise it, certainly. They were there to advise her on how best to secure her victory, but she came bearing her own artillery. They weren’t there to arm her, just to aim her. She stayed silent another moment, studying Lyme carefully - it generally wasn’t as difficult as all this, debating how to act, but without cues beyond indifferent and unsympathetic, all she had to choose between was guarded and open. An easy enough decision. “I intend to win,” she said after a moment, watching the other woman’s eyes carefully, choosing her words as though they were being broadcast. “Whatever it takes.” Lyme had heard that before, and it took a decent amount of self-control to not dismiss the girl’s words within an instant. Hadn’t she said that same thing? When she was a few years younger, enthused by the concept of her own prowess? Zipporah was smaller than Diana had been, but she noted that confidence. “Well,” she said, sitting down opposite the girl. She kicked her shoes off, having worn the high-heeled atrocities for a few hours was probably miraculous to start with, and crossed her ankles under the chair legs. “That’s a good start, at least.” There were still no smiles, and Lyme seemed to have forgotten the many times that she’d practiced her first introduction. She wasn’t nervous, not worried about how she looked to this girl like she’d imagined she might be. “Brutus and I will be your mentors. You don’t have to do things our way-” it would be hypocritical to insist otherwise, since Lyme had ignored all of Marcus’s mentoring, “- but I think the best way that we can all work together as a unit is honesty, strategy and making sure we’re on the same page. That can be you and the boy together, or separately. Once you’re in the arena we need effective communication to know what you need and to help you to get that.” Lyme paused for a moment, although she clearly wasn’t finished. “I saw you train, I saw the contest.” She pointedly didn’t compliment the girl on her win, seeing it as unnecessary. The Hunger Games was an entirely different thing to a District contest. Mirroring her mentor, Zipporah too slipped out of her shoes, wedged heel a disturbing concept to her even now: dress the pretty women up and put them in outfits that make it impossible for them to run for their lives. None of it showed on her face, features a smooth mask, but she allowed her legs to curl under her, such that she formed an easy, compact Z in her seat, watching and listening, absorbing the information and - not hiding it - considering it as though sampling a dish. Deciding whether she liked the taste of it. She must have, although she didn’t respond to any of the mentor-talk, not since Lyme brought up the contest and her training. That was what this conversation was about, what all the conversations would be about: what Zipporah could do and how flawlessly she could execute it, independent of everything else. Simply, deciding that seemingly blunt honesty was the approach to take with this particular Victor, she answered, all even, straightforward. “Then you know I’m capable.” There was a moment of pause before she went on, just as frankly, “I’m capable of taking direction as well, from those who know better than I do.” The unspoken implication lingering in her tone was that being a Victor didn’t equate with that intangible ‘knowing better’. Finally, amused, Lyme smiled a little. It was the first sign of relaxing other than getting rid of her shoes. “I’m not saying any of us know better,” she told her, having realised what the girl thought. Perhaps they were on a similar wavelength after all. “Something that worked for me could be a bust for you. You’ve just got to adapt, be smart,” she hesitated. “Beneath all that hair-flicking is there a smart girl?” She raised her eyebrows, directly challenging the girl for an honest answer. Still in the habit of echoing the other person in the conversation, it was no wonder that Zipporah’s initial response was a smile: a wicked smile, one that, for the first time, revealed something to her mentor other than the facts she already knew implicitly, that she was a Volunteer, that she had earned this right, that she was proud. This, the upturning of the corners of her mouth and the sparkling of her dark eyes, this spoke to something more than that, an answer to the question of whether there was more to her than flirtations and simplicity. “Shh,” was her response, seemingly nonchalant despite the fact that her eyes still flickered with satisfaction, “don’t tell anyone.” There was some kind of satisfaction in being proven wrong. Diana leaned back into the seat and looked at her tribute, one of the first ones that she would ever mentor. She folded her arms and watched the girl carefully. “It can be our secret,” Diana told her. |